Moving On
by i'mnotcrazy82
Summary: After an accident, House has some unfinished business before he can move on. Can a guide help him to see what he missed? Warning, major character death. Implied huddy.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N -**_

_**Moving On **_

_**Angst/Supernatural/Hurt-Comfort**_

_**Major Character death, sort of.**_

_**It's different, so let me know if you like it.**_

_**Implied Huddy. Sort of.**_

_*********************  
Moving On  
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_**~ The End Is Just Another End's Beginning ~**_

The streets were slick in the aftermath of the recent storm. Low, pregnant clouds still hung in the sky, threatening to rupture at any moment. The dull, orange security lights had flickered on in the parking lot, the oily puddles that had formed reflecting the dirty light.

The smell of the recent rain hung in the air. Greg House and James Wilson stepped out of the cool, dry hospital air conditioning into the muggy, oppressive humid air. House sniffed the thick air, then snorted. Wilson unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them up past his elbows. "The streets are wet," he commented.

House shot him a "duh" look. "Thanks, Captain Obvious," he shot at the younger doctor. He turned his head back to the parking lot. His orange bike was coated in water; he knew he should have parked it in the underground lot. Actually, he shouldn't have rode it at all, but the weather that morning had been so nice. It was a good feeling, riding that damn bike. It was dangerous. It made him feel alive.

The two doctors walked over to it, and House reached out and brushed the beads of water off the leather seat. Wilson heard him give an irritated hmmf. "You want a ride home?" he asked. The least of his worries was his friend having a wet ass. It was growing dark after a long day, and the pavement was wet and slick. House was tired and emotionally drained. He was still coming to terms with their boss' engagement, so he was literally throwing himself into his work.

The older doctor shook his graying head. "Nope. I'll be fine," he informed Wilson gruffly, straddling the bike. "Besides, Sam's probably home waiting on you." He looked at the younger doctor. "Go, get some. One of us should be enjoying the wonders of the opposite sex. Since you're the only one with a girlfriend..." he trailed off, putting the bike in neutral and starting it up.

Wilson nodded. "Look, give me a call when you get home, okay. It looks like it's going to rain, and I want don't want to know if they'll be scraping your sorry carcass off the pavement somewhere." He meant it as a joke, and House gave him a weak grin. "Be safe," the younger doctor intoned, worry and sincerity ringing in his voice like a clear bell.

House sneered, pulling on his black helmet. He'd foregone the leather coat due to the heat. "Yes, mom," he snarked, opening the throttle on the bike. He walked it backward out of the spot, then he shifted gears, pulling out into the darkening night.

Wilson stood on the curb, watching as his friend riding away. He'll be fine, he told himself as he turned and walked the opposite direction to his own car. He couldn't place the anxiety that filled his gut, but he tried to stifle it. I really need a break, he thought, pulling the keys to his Volvo out of his pants pocket. He thought about talking to Sam about a possible vacation. Cuddy had been harassing him about using up his vacation time.

It had been a long year. Between House being in rehab, then moving in with him. His own struggles between his friend and his own life. Them both moving on. He'd watched his friend struggle with their boss and friend moving on herself, and House hadn't dealt with that very well.

They loved each other. They were just too stubborn and pig headed to see that. He thought, that after the year and especially the recent events of the crane accident, that they would see that, but, no. Cuddy had moved on with her engagement, and House drifted even farther to the edge.

Wilson shivered involuntarily. House had been having a rough time after the loss of Hanna. He'd done everything right, and she still had died. It was tough, seeing House second guess himself at every move. He had thought he'd lost his mojo after Kutner died, but now, it was apparent to Wilson that House had really lost his mojo, along with his will. He was a tall, limping shadow haunting the hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro now, not the overly confident, arrogant ass he usually had been.

Wilson arrived at his beige sedan, chewing his lip in thought. He slid into the pale leather driver's seat, and he slid the key into the ignition. He hoped that House would find his way, but he wasn't overly optimistic about it. Maybe, he'd treat his friend to a guys night out at a Phillies game this weekend. Guys don't talk about stuff like women did, but maybe, he could show House that he cared without breaking the guy code.

He reached into the pocket of his slacks, and he pulled out his cell. He'd give House an hour before he tried to call. Not that House would answer it, but he'd at least try to see if the cranky doctor was able to get home alright.

At that thought, a bright fork of lightening streaked across the sky, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. He paused as he began to put the car in gear. He had to wonder it that was just bad timing, or something a lot more ominous. Shaking of the feeling of foreboding, he put the car in reverse, then, as he left the parking lot, the heavens opened up, releasing their contents on the earth.

House took it easy through the city streets, watching his turns. He didn't go straight home, preferring to wander the wet streets of Princeton. He was tired, both mentally and physically. His physical wounds from the night of the collapse had headed, but the mental and emotional ones, those would take a good bit longer. Some how, he knew that they would always ooze and seep, not healing over at all.

His nose and the place where his neck joined his shoulder had fresh scars, red and raw, from his ordeal underneath the building. The shoulder wound still throbbed, an echo of the pain of losing his last patient. His neck was often stiff, and it hurt to move it or his shoulder. It wasn't as bad as his leg pain, but it was something.

He thought about going back to his shrink, but he decided not to. He'd worked so hard all year to be happy, and while his friends were becoming content with their lives, he was still stuck with being miserable. He was in an ever deepening rut, and the faster he spun his tires, the deeper he went down. The problem was, he didn't know if he had the strength to get out of it.

Thunder echoed from overhead, and it had rained on him for most of his ride. The drops stung like hell as they hit him, but he relished the pain. The physical pain of the ride was much better than the emotional pain of his mind. Even when it poured, he was still fine with the hurt. Nothing could hurt as bad as he did internally. Ever.

He was soaked as he road by her new house. He hadn't even realized he had rode that far, or in that general direction. He paused in front of the building. It was a loft, similar to Wilson's new one. He pulled off the road, parking on the curb across the street, watching. He saw them as they piled out of her car. Lucas was driving, and she scrambled out of the passenger's seat, slamming that door as she opened the back door. She unbuckled Rachel as Lucas ran around the vehicle with an umbrella. The rain came down in sheets as the happy couple rushed to the door. He felt sick as he watched Lucas draw her close to him before they entered, planting a soft kiss on her lips, then kissing Rachel's forehead. Then, they disappeared into the old, gray stone building.

He felt something deep within him die. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and he closed his eyes. He'd lost something precious, and he knew he was never going to get it back. It wasn't until much later, he realized that since he had his helmet on, his cheeks weren't wet from the rain.

He rode on down the road, his emotions sapped. Her lengthy speech the night of the crane collapse about how she didn't love him rang in his ears, but it didn't hurt any less. In fact, it hurt more; something that he didn't believe was possible. He felt like his heart and soul had been pulled out of his chest, then replaced with an acid that was eating him alive.

He hurt, aching with betrayal and rejection. He pulled out on to the streets, the weather seeming to match his dark mood. The rain fell harder, pelting him. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his body like a wetsuit, and he felt like he was drenched to his very core. If he was lucky, he'd come down with pneumonia and die. At least that would put him out of his misery.

He stopped at a stoplight on his way back to his apartment, so he sat up. He shoulders and back were aching from the position he rode in on the bike. He rolled his neck and neck and shoulders while stretching his back, working out the kinks. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a youngish adult. She stood out, her hair dyed black with neon green tips. The tips matched her t-shirt and tights, and the black hair matched her skirt and combat boots. Her bright emerald eyes stared at him from the curb; he could see their color from where he sat, so he tilted his head and blinked. He heard a horn honk, and he glanced up; the light was still red. When he turned back to look at the girl, she was gone.

A strong feeling of anxiety welled up in him, almost replacing the misery he had been wallowing in. He blinked again, several times, then shook his head. He must have been imagining things. It wouldn't have been the first time he had saw things that wasn't there. He turned his attention back toward traffic. He thought about going home and crawling into a bottle. He knew that if he did, he might not ever crawl out, but he didn't care. He was tired of hurting.

He sped down the streets, taking a few more risks than necessary. He was a few blocks away from his apartment, and he took the turn. As he turned, more sharply than he had intended, his back tire skidded on a puddle of water. He hit the brakes, the tires squealing as he nearly lost control of the bike. He pulled over to the curb, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He'd had bike accidents before, and the adrenaline surge he was feeling now raised his anxiety level that much more. He sat on the leather seat, in the pouring rain, trying to regain control of his surging emotions.

Once he felt his heartbeat return to somewhat normal, he started up the bike again, shaking off the distress of almost crashing his bike again. He pulled back out into the road, ready to get home, get dry, and get drunk.

It was too bad he didn't see the truck coming up too fast from behind him. There was an impact, the sound of metal crunching, pain, then, nothing. He was deliciously numb. He couldn't move at all, but he notice his vision fading to black. The last thing he saw were two bright green eyes, burning into his.

Wilson's phone rang around 11pm. He was in bed, snuggled up with Sam. Thinking it was House, he rolled over, and he picked up the phone. "_Wilson_," a heavily accented voice asked.

"Yeah, Chase. What's up?" He blinked, looking at the bright green numbers on the clock. It was nearing 11 pm.

"_There's been an accident_," Chase began. "_A motorcycle accident._" Wilson felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. There was a long, pregnant pause. _It's House_.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N - **_

_**Thanks for the kind reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy this one!**_

_**Disclaimer – I own nothing but my OC, and it's debatable if I own her at all. She's like a cat, she makes you think that you own her, until you realize that it's the other way around...**_

_**~ Consciousness ~**_

Greg House felt warm. Hot in fact. I must have a fever, he thought. He didn't want to open his eyes. At the moment, he was blissfully pain free, and he feared that once he opened his eyes, he'd see the damage. Then the pain would begin. If he couldn't see it, he couldn't feel it.

_You need to get up._ Where had that come from? Was he alone? Was that a thought he had. He didn't want to move. Moving would hurt. _No, it won't. You'll be fine._ If he could gasp he would. _You can. Just open your eyes. You'll see._

He reluctantly did as he was told, more out of curiosity than anything. When he did open them, he found himself laying down, fully clothed. His clothes were dry, and other than a few residual aches and pains, he felt fine. The accident must not have been as bad as I thought, he wondered. He heard a quiet snickering sound, and he sat up, looking around.

Across the room, leaning up against the wall, was the girl he had saw before the accident. Her emerald green eyes burned as if from an inner flame, and this close, he could see the glint of silver rings in her eyebrow, nose, ears, and lip. He idly wondered what else was pierced.

"Wouldn't you like to know," her green painted lips twisted up into a teasing smirk. He was momentarily stunned, then, he realized, he must have said that aloud. The girl arched a pierced eyebrow in a questioning manner, but she didn't say anything. He stared at her, wondering how old she was. She had a heart shaped face, and a cupid's bow mouth. Her lipstick was the same shade of emerald as her eyes, and her eye shadow matched. Her eyebrows were blond, a stark contrast to the black and green dye job. Her straight hair was cut off at the chin, and her bangs were held back by plastic green barrettes. Her black tights had strategically placed tears.

She looked like a pixie from hell.

"For all you know, I am," she told him. He frowned at her, wondering if he had really spoke aloud that time. He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he suppressed a shiver. Something was going on, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Probably just an after effect from the accident, he told himself, trying to shake of the feeling. He swore he heard her snort a response, but when he turned to give her a dirty look, she was gone.

He sat up quickly, twisting his head around back and forth. He must have suffered a head injury in the wreck. Yeah, that was it. His heart rate had sky rocketed, and he could feel his blood rush through his ears. He looked around the room, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. As he felt his pulse slow, he was surprised at where he was. He had been stretched out on an exam table in one of the Clinic's exam rooms.

He stared at where the emo punk wanna be had been sitting. It was one of the stainless steel counters in the room, just below the cabinets where they stored the gauze and other medical supplies. He noticed that steam was rising from the spot where she had sat. Curious, he swung his legs over the table, sitting up completely.

He expected to be in pain, but he wasn't. Not at all. Even the consistent throb had waned, but it hadn't disappeared. "Morphine," he thought to himself, and again, he heard her snicker.. He frowned, swinging his legs over the edge of the paper covered table. He inspected his arms and legs, and he patted his chest. No torn clothing, no blood. No nothing. Frowning, he hopped off the table. He rummaged through the drawers in the exam room, but he couldn't find a mirror. He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing deeply. It wasn't of any matter. He needed to figure out what was going on.

He opened the door to the exam room, and he found people milling about in the Clinic. The nurses all had subdued looks on their faces, and some of the doctors did too. The patients in the Clinic wore there usual looks of pain and discomfort. He snorted, trying to figure out why he had been taken to the Clinic, then shrugged, deciding to head up to his office. Maybe his minions could give him some answers.

He headed over to the elevator, and he hit the up button with the rubber end of his cane. He waited, watching the lights above him ding. He leaned on his cane, still wondering how he managed to scrape out of that accident uninjured. He rubbed the back of his head, and the thought came to him; maybe he hadn't been in an accident at all. Maybe he had fallen asleep in the Clinic, and that's why he was there.

The elevator's big double doors opened, and he slipped into them. There were a few other doctors in the tiny space, but they just ignored him, like they always did. He twisted his face up into a familiar scowl, warning them to keep their distance, and not to talk to him.

"Do you like knowing that they're afraid of you?" His head whipped around, and there, his green friend stood, standing in a back corner of the elevator. The other doctors ignored the teen punk wannabe, keeping their eyes forward. Her too thin arms were folded across her body, but the body language wasn't projecting a lack of confidence, quite the contrary. She was challenging him.

"Who are you?" he asked, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. That seemed to amuse her, and her lips curled into a brighter smirk. He could feel his teeth gritting together, as if he knew that this girl knew much more than she carried on.

And besides, what was up the the green and black fetish.

"You don't like it?" Her heavily mascaraed eyes widened, but the smirk never left her lips. Before waiting for his answer, she shrugged, nonchalantly. "I like green. It's the color of growth, of new life," her eyes burned into his. "And it's also the color of of envy, and jealousy.

"What are you, some kind of teenage philosopher? God help us, we don't need another one," he spit out, irritated at her presence. "Now, who the hell are you?"

She tilted her head, obviously pondering the question. "Elysa. You may call me Elysa."

"Elysa?" he repeated, incredulous. "You cannot be serious! What the hell is with you kids and all these friggin' goth and emo names. I bet your real name is Samantha, or Jessica, or something All-American and normal." He rolled his eyes, showing her what he thought of the name.

"I thought you said 'normal's over-rated,'" she said, keeping her infuriatingly calm, placid demeanor. He grunted, she was obviously hard to ruffle.

"No, I said 'humanity's overrated.'" he snarked back, sneering. She just smiled, and that made his sneer deepen. After a few strained seconds, he blurted out, "Who the hell are you?"

She shrugged, "I'm..."

"I know your name!" he cut her off. "I mean, around here, I've never seen you before! Why the hell are you haunting me!"

Her knowing smirk widened. "I believe this is your floor," she told him, serenely, unfolding her arms to gesture towards the opening door. He turned around to exit, and several of the other occupants of the elevator exited with him. He glanced back to answer the teen, and once again, she was gone.

He rubbed his face nervously with his hands. Maybe he was having another delusion, though why his subconscious would pick an emo, anorexic teenager as the guide to his Id, he didn't have a clue. He turned back to the exit, and she was standing in front of him, the knowing smirk she seemed to wear giving him even more discomfort. "Are you even real?" he muttered, suddenly self conscious. He glanced around, wondering if the other doctors walking down the hallway saw him talking to a blank wall. Not that he cared, but...

"I'm always here, as for real, that's up for interpretation." He froze in place, just outside of his office doors, and he slowly turned towards her. Since last summer, it had been his deepest fear; to have his subconscious rebel and take over again. To see and hear things that just weren't there.

He swallowed, and with great trepidation, he asked, "what are you." His voice was hoarse and shaky; he didn't want her to answer that question. With bright emerald eyes fixed on him, she tilted her head. Then, she nodded at the room next to his office. He walked up to the glass, and he peered inside.

His team sat at the table, all looking subdued and in shock. Foreman had his arm around Thirteen, who was staring at the table, tears in her eyes. Chase sat back, a mixed expression of disbelief and shock etched on his overly handsome features. Taub was slumped across from the head of the table, where House usually sat.

He reached out to grab the door handle, to ask his team what had happened, and his hand passed through it.

He jumped halfway across the hallway. "You have to concentrate," the girl informed him, boredom filling her voice. He looked up, and she was inspecting her black and green (go figure) fingernails. She looked up at him, and her voice was indifferent. "You have to concentrate to manipulate items on the physical plane." She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Something in his mind clicked. He thought back, to the accident. How he wasn't injured. How his clothes were intact. How his leg didn't hurt. He staggered back, dropping to one knee. He hadn't seen the light on the elevator up arrow light up when he thought he pressed it with his cane. His breathing became ragged and he felt a pressure in his chest. But if he was...

"You can still feel emotional pain." He looked up, and he found her eyes burning into his. "You're in between planes," she told him, the calmness of her voice laced with a touch of compassion. "You're stuck, until you can move on."

He licked his too dry lips. He had a good grasp of what was going on. He was dreaming, or in a drug induced coma. That was it. That HAD to be it. Nothing after life existed.

"And the bus from two years ago? What you saw when you shoved the knife into the wall socket? What about when you arrested after your initial surgery to restore blood flow in your leg?" His eyes widened even more at her as fell backward, still in shock. She sat down beside him, her presence warm. "You spend a lot of time preaching that something doesn't exist, when you've seen it for yourself."

He shook his head. "But those were all chemical reactions caused by the body dying," he mumbled.

She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, things don't have a scientific answer." She spread her hands out wide in front of her. "Sometimes, they just are, without rhyme or reason."

He looked over at her, numb with shock. In a low tone filled with disbelief, he whispered, "I don't believe you." Her eyes flared, and she fixed her fiery stare on him. He could see the inner flames flicker and spark. "Wh...what are you," he breathed shakily, feeling heat radiate from her body. This close, she seemed to shimmer, like the air on a hot summer day.

Her lips curled up in a feral-looking smile. "I'm a djinn."


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N - **_

_**Some of you have wondered what a djinn is. From Wikipedia - **__In Arabic, a genie (also jinn, jinni, djinni, from __Arabic__جني __jinnī) is a __supernatural__ creature which occupies a __parallel world__ to that of mankind, and together with humans and __angels__ makes up the three sentient creations of __God__ (__Allah__). According to the __Qur'ān__, there are two creations that have free will: humans and jinn. Religious sources don't mention much about them; however, the Qur'an mentions that jinn are made of smokeless flame, and they form communities just like humans, and, just like humans, they can be good or evil.__[1]_

_**I've taken the basic nature of a djinn (a supernatural creature of fire), and expanded it into my own little world. Thanks for reading! I really appreciate you all indulging me on this. Please, let me know what you think on this one. I love fantasy, so I hope I'm doing a good job here.**_

_**As usual, I own nothing but my OC, though, sometimes I think, she owns me ;-)  
**_

_**Thanks, and now, on to the show!**_

_**Chapter Three**_

_**Glimpses**_

It was all surreal. "You're a what?" he grunted out, his head throbbing.

"A djinn," she said calmly, though, he thought he heard a slight note of irritation in her cool voice.

He shook his head in disbelief, then scoffed. "I'm dreaming. That's it," he stood up, and he began to pace. "I'm dreaming. I took the Vicodin after the crane collapse, and now, I'm in some Vicodin-induced delusion." His heart was hammering in his chest. "I can't be dead," he said aloud, as if saying it would make it true."

She sat there calmly, watching him rant and pace. "You are correct," she said, her placid demeanor never changing. "Technically, you aren't dead."

He stopped dead in his tracks. "I'm not dead," he said, slowly, "on a _technicality?_" His voice rose on the last word. The situation had gone beyond belief. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to digest everything. "I'm not dead, on a technicality, but yet, somehow, I'm not in the real world, and I'm stuck with a _Twilight_-goth vampire wanna-be who claims she's a djinn?" Something in the irrational part of his brain snapped, and he began to chuckle." She watched him as he sank to the floor, descending into a wracking laugh worthy of a madman.

Sighing, she stood up, graceful in her movements. "I don't claim to be a djinn. I _am_ a djinn." As he continued to laugh maniacally, she fixed her eyes on him, and he could feel the heat from her inner flame. "I am your guide, whether you believe it or not."

He stopped laughing, his chest heaving from the exertion. He felt the implied threat in her voice, and somehow, deep in the dark recesses of his mind, he knew, delusion or not, that she was dangerous. She didn't show any outward signs of malice, but, somehow, he knew, she could hurt him. The inner flame that seemed to burn within her flared, and he could feel the heat radiate from her. "My _guide?_" he latched on to her last words?"

She beamed at him, like a parent would do to their child. "Your guide." she repeated. She leaned against the wall, her gaze fixed on him.

"What are you guiding me to?" he asked, still disconcerted by the way she had said it. He was overwhelmed by the situation, and he still thought it was a drug induced delusion. "The Cullens? No thanks, I don't want to be enraptured by a sparkling vampire," he snorted.

Frustration broke through her placid demeanor. "I don't know about sparkly vampires," she retorted, keeping her voice deathly calm. She leaned against the wall facing his office, "but I do know of darker creatures that I can introduce you to later."

House sneered. "Why the hell don't you go back to your lamp, or better yet, back to your parent's basement."

She began to glow. He took a few steps back from her, as her visible skin turned from pale cream to glowing bronze. Her eyes flamed. "I am _not_ a genie," she growled. "I am a djinn. A creature of earth and fire. I've watched your kind grow from apes, destroying everything in your wake, disregarding the Mother right and left. We do not give wishes; we do not live in lamps. We are not cartoons or caricatures for your enjoyment. We are children of the flame, servants of the Earth."

After spitting the words at him, she fell silent, fixing her stare on him. He blinked at her. "Gandalf know you stole his speech?" he snorted. From the look on her face, it was the wrong thing to say.

"Don't believe me?" she said in a low, angry tone. "Fine." She darted out a bronze hand, and she grasped his forearm.

The pain was immediate and seizing. Nothing compared to it, not even the infarction. He was waiting for the stench of burning flesh, but it never came. "What the hell are you doing, bitch?" he screamed, wanting to drop to his knees, but he couldn't. Whatever she was doing was freezing his muscles.

She didn't nod, or wink. She didn't say some strange, magic words, or make a cute facial gesture. One moment, they were standing in front of his office, and the next second, they were standing outside the ICU, two floors down. She let go of his arm, and he stumbled back into the bench across the hall. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WOMAN!" he bellowed, grasping his searing forearm. "Why the hell did you do for," he gasped, doubling over. The pain still radiated up from his arm, and his hand had gone completely numb.

"Your hand will get its feeling back in a few hours," she said, calmly, but he could still hear the bite in her tone. She wasn't happy.

"Fucking harpy," he growled, rubbing the spot where she had grabbed him. It still hurt, but the pain was becoming tolerable. He stood up, and he looked around. "How the hell did we get here?" he grunted.

She gave him a wane smile. "We're technically not of the physical plane, and time and space are much easily manipulated here." She tilted her head to one side. "Are you beginning to believe?"

"You're glowing like Haley's Comet, we just teleported two floors and a wing over in a split second, and I can't feel my arm," he grumbled. "I think it's safe to say that I believe I either just took some primo drugs, or I'm not in the real world." He paused briefly. "Which I wouldn't be if I took some primo drugs."

She stared at him for a moment, but there was no anger or malice in the look. She then slowly nodded. "I'll buy that."

"I'm not asking you to buy it," he groused. Still holding his arm, he shakily stood up. "Why are we here?"

She took a step aside, and she gestured toward the window of the ICU. Her skin had stopped glowing bronze, having returned to her more natural pale cream color, but the green fire had not receded from her eyes, giving her an otherworldly appearance. He stepped up to the window, but he didn't look inside. Instead, he looked at her, and he rolled his eyes. He'd been a doctor for over twenty years; nothing she could show him could shock him. When it came to medicine, he'd seen it all, and he'd done it all.

But he wasn't prepared for what he saw.

His body lay in the bed, but it was nearly unrecognizable. His face was swollen and bruised, like nearly all his visible skin. There were tubes everywhere, and the body was hooked up to a respirator and several machines. He looked over, and Wilson sat in the chair in the room, looking at his body in guilt and disbelief. It was only then that he remembered their last conversation.  
"He feels guilty." Her voice broke through his thoughts. "He feels that what happened was his fault."

"It wasn't," House said in a low monotone. He was still processing what he was looking at, and he felt like the world had been stripped from around him. He felt sick and clammy. "What am I doing here?" he asked, his voice numb. "Am I here?" He slowly turned to her, his face pale. "Is this real?"

She kept her gaze fixed on Wilson's face. "You're not George Bailey, and I'm not Clarence. This is not a glimpse of your life as it could be." She took a deep breath. "It's over, but something is anchoring you here, and it's my job to help you find out what it is, fix it, and move on."

"As my guide?"

She nodded. She put a hand on House's arm. He could feel the heat of her skin, but it wasn't as intense as before. There was no pain this time. It was actually reassuring. "I'm here to help you move on."

"Move on to where?" The question was automatic, like he was running on autopilot.

She gave him a soft smile. "To the other side, away from the physical plane." She shook her hair back out of her face. "To whatever life awaits you next."

"I still don't believe a word you say," he mumbled, finally lifting his hand to rub his face.

"You don't have to, now," she said softly. "But you will."

_**Now, it's your turn to tell me what you think!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N**_

_**Thanks to everyone who's reading this. I appreciate you all indulging me on this one. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, so thanks to all who leave me reviews. It really lets me know I'm doing something right!**_

_**Chapter Four**_

_**Revelations**_

He sat at his desk, his eyes intently focused on his large gray and white ball. The hospital was quiet, and his offices were dark. The blinds were pulled tight, so no one could see the ball float in mid-air. This is, if he could get a hold of the damn thing. He scowled, watching his hand pass through it once again as if the ball was made of mist. He felt his frustration with his situation growing, and he made a fierce swipe at the ball. His eyes grew wide as he watched it fly across the air, smacking against the blinds with a resounding crack. He leaned back, smiling with a bit of smug satisfaction.

He was learning to manipulate things. Somethings, he had learned, like sitting in chairs or walking across floors, were a given. Something about since the intent was subconscious and implied, it just happened. Other things, like opening doors or picking up things, took much more concentration. He had discovered that the cane he'd been using was just a manifestation on this plane, and if it had been an actual physical cane, the doctors in the lobby would have freaked the hell out seeing it float through the air. He almost wished he'd have done that. The doctor's here were way too damn uptight.

The damn near impossible thing to accomplish, as far as the pain in his ass know it all that had been shadowing him had told him, was to been seen or heard by other people.

His genie had no clue who she was dealing with. If someone told him something was next to impossible, he set out to prove that not only was it possible, but he could do it with flair. But first, baby steps.

He slid out of his seat, and he headed to the dark corner where the ball had landed. As he drew closer, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his skin prickled. He paused, staring at the black corner, not really seeing anything. He shook off the feeling as nervous energy, and he reached for the ball.

That's when the..._thing_...attacked.

He never saw what it was. A black blur lunged at him, snarling and knocking him back, and he grunted with pain and surprise as he landed on the floor. The thing leaped on top of him, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. He had never wished more fervently for his cane, or for the small revolver in the top right-hand drawer of his desk He felt the things breath on his face, and he felt the icy cold sweep over him. He had the vague idea of claws and fangs. He screamed, and he fought against it, swearing with pain as he felt a claw connect with his shoulder. Where the hell was the fucking she-bitch genie when he needed her.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, she appeared in a wink. Her eyes grew wide as she saw him struggling against the dark thing, and she winked out again.

"GODDAMN IT!" he cursed, struggling to keep the thing's fangs from reaching his throat. He felt the thing rip at his chest, but he shifted, trying to throw it off, so the worse it did was rip his t-shirt. His shoulder began to throb painful, and he could feel a hot wetness seep where it had scored his flesh. He could feel himself growing weak and cold. He was losing this battle.

He didn't see her reappear again; he was too busy struggling against the heavy shadow thing on his chest, but he did notice when a glowing bronze sword separated the damn thing's head from its body. Or he assumed that's what happened; it happened so fast.

He was panting heavily when she wrenched him to his feet, helping him to his chair. He was breathing heavily, and he didn't notice her until she tried to take his shirt off. He yelped, tipping his chair over. "Where the hell where you?" he screamed, shaking. "Where the hell where, and what the hell was that fucking thing!" he bellowed, clutching his shoulder as he stared at her, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

She stood before him, but it wasn't her. It didn't look like her. The woman that stood before him was nearly six feet tall, and as curvy as a an ancient statue of Aphrodite. Her long emerald hair hung in ringlets down her back, nearly brushing her waist, and it was held back from her heart-shaped face by a leather band. She wore a white short sleeved tunic that fell to just above her knees. A gold belt glowed from her waist, and she wore leather sandals that wouldn't have looked out of place if they were in ancient Egypt. Her skin glowed bronze, and her lips were as green as her hair and eyes. Some how, he got the feeling that she wasn't wearing lipstick. She carried a sword. A fucking flaming two-handed great-sword.

"I was wrong to leave you alone," she said, apologetically, leaning the sword against his desk. "I honestly thought we had more time for you to adjust, before we started on our mission. She came closer, and he took a step back. "This is my true form," she told him. "We djinn can pick any form we want, but we all have a true form that we were born into. In times of great stress, we revert back to those forms."

"More time! What the hell are you talking about?" He stalked away from her, angry. "You leave me the fuck alone without telling me about those...what the hell was that thing."

"A _gnoll_. A shadow demon."

"A fucking demon?"

She nodded, reaching into a leather pouch that hung from her belt. "Let me attend to your wound, before you attract more. I will explain all."

"Why the hell should I trust you?" he snarled, clutching his throbbing shoulder.

"Because only I can heal you. Please," she implored, "let me heal you, and I will explain. He gave her a wild, wide-eyed look. She took a deep breath, and he watched as air around her shimmered. Instead of the goddess that had stood before him, the emo punk had returned. "Does this intimidate you less?"

He stared at her. "Actually, the ancient Greek look made me a little more confident in your doctoring abilities. Now, you just look like you got back from a rave."

She nodded, then the air blurred again. A woman in her early thirties stood before him, in jeans, hiking boots, and a green t-shirt. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tail, but the green eyes were the same. "Does this comfort you?" He gave her a dirty look. "Let me treat you. Please."

The ache in shoulder made him relent and he sat down. She tugged off the ragged t-shirt, and she looked over the wounds. He looked down at his shoulder, and he was shocked. The tissue around it was turning black, and instead of blood, a bright, golden fluid was seeping. He was not comforted by her hiss. "This is bad," she breathed, then she looked up at him. "But not untreatable. You have not lost much of your essence."

"My essence?" he asked as she uncorked the bottle she had pulled from her pouch. She dabbed a pungent paste on the wounds, and he hissed as it burned.

"Each person," she explained, "has an essence. It is what makes them who they are. Some people refer to it a soul."

"So the stuff that was bleeding out of me?"

"Was you, essentially." She moved to the lighter scratches on his chest. "When humans die, most of the time, their essences move on to the next plain, ready for the next life without help. Then, they are reborn, and that aspect of their inner self lives on in another husk."

"You're serious?" he snorted.

She gave him a dirty look. "There are some," she continued, "that need aid to move on. Something is tethering their essence here on earth, and it is our job, as djinn, to help our cousins, that would be you, human, to break the tether, releasing them."

"And that..._thing?_" he hissed, as she wrapped his should with a bandage.

"Sometimes, we do not find what is tethering them, or they are too despondent or stubborn to find it. They become _gnoll_. The essence, the Spark of Life, has completely left them, and yet they crave it. So they wait, in the shadows, attacking when they sense it's presence." She picked up a box of bandages from inside his desk, and she patched up the thinner scratches on his chest.

"So," he drew out the word in disbelief, "what happens after they attack?"

She put her hands on her hips surveying the bandage job. "Do you want a beer?" she suddenly changed the subject.

"What?" He was puzzled by her abrupt change of subject.

"You need a shirt, and I need a beer," she simply stated, shrugging a little. "I get that, and then, I'll finish answering your questions."

He snorted. "I didn't think genies could drink, or be that direct."

Her eyes flickered. "I'm not a genie, and I'm partial to beer. You know, we invented it, and we shared our secret to your people, cousin." She stared at him, "Do you want one?"

He started to nod. A beer would be good. What if that thing comes back?"

She handed him her sword. "That particular one won't. If more show up, just swing."

He grunted with effort as he hefted the blade. "I'm a doctor, not a knight," he muttered under his breath. She gave him a dirty look, then she winked out, leaving him in the dark room.

He tensed, looking around in the shadows. His grip tightened on the blade's hilt until his knuckles were white. He sighed in relief when she reappeared, with two brown bottles and a t-shirt. She tossed the shirt to him, and with effort, he put it on. "How come I can wear this. Do I really need clothes? Aren't I dead?" He tugged the shirt over his head.

She frowned. "We are still close to the mortal plane. Technically, we're only one step away from it. You still feel some physical needs, and there are enough djinn who spend most of their time either on this plane or in the mortal one, that we have stores of clothes and other items." She paused, a wry grin on her face. "But, you don't _need_ to wear them..." she trailed off.

He snorted. "I think I will. I don't want other freaks staring at me." He sat down, and he rubbed his thigh. It didn't hurt, but it was force of habit after so many years. "So, what would have happened if that thing had gotten a hold of me? And what did you mean about 'time to adjust? And what about that beer?" She handed him a brown bottle. She held another one in her hand. "Killians?" he questioned.

She shrugged. "Don't like it, don't drink it." She took a own long drink. "As far as what would happen if the _gnoll_ had succeeded, you would have joined it's ranks."

His lips curled up into a distasteful sneer. "I would be _that_?"

She nodded. "It's happened before. When djinn didn't get there in time. Your essence is so bright, though, that it's attracted both djinn and _gnoll_ for a while. Neither have ever been far away from you."

"That's comforting," he muttered sarcastically. He mulled over what she had told him over his beer. "I think I liked you as the goth jail bait," he suddenly said aloud. "It was easier to not take you seriously that way."

She laughed, a rich, low sound. The air shimmered, and she resumed the form he'd seen her in the most. "I prefer this skin, anyway." She finished her beer, and the bottle disappeared in the air. "Now, we must get to work. Time is drawing short, I'm afraid."

"Work?" he asked. "Time?" He finished his own beer, watching in disbelief as the bottle dissolved. "For what?"

"To discover what's keeping you here, before you become one of them."

_**If you like it, please, send me some review love. This is sort of experimental for me, and I'd really appreciate it!**_


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